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THE creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,
And fays Ye needna yoke the pleugh,

Kirkyards will foon be till'd eneugh,

'Tak ye nae' fear:

They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a fheugh.
In twa-three year.

'WHARE I kill d ane a fair ftrae death,

'By lofs o' blood or want of breath,

This night I'm free to tak my aith,

That Hornbook's skill

Has clad a score i' their last claith,

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'Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,

'When it was fair;

The

The wife flade cannie to her bed,

'But ne'er fpak mair.

'A countra Laird had ta'en the batts,

'Or fome curmurring in his guts,

His only fon for Hornbook fets,

An' pays him well.

The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,

Was Laird himfel.

'A BONIE lafs, ye kend her name,

'Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame;

She trufts herfel, to hide the shame,

In Hornbook's care;

Horn fent her aff to her lang hame,

To hide it there.

'THAT's just a fwatch o' Hornbook's way;

'Thus goes he on from day to day,

Thus

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Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,

'An's weel paid for't;

Yet ftops me o' my lawfu' prey,

Wi' his d-mn'd dirt:

BUT, hark! I'll tell you of a plot,
Tho' dinna ye be speakin o't;

I'll nail the felf-conceited Sot,

'As dead's a herrin:

'Nieft time we meet, I'll wad a groat,

He get's his fairin !*

Bur juft as he began to tell,

The auld kirk-hammer ftrak the bell

Some wee fhort hour ayont the twal,

Which rais'd us baith:

I took the way that pleas'd myfel,

And fae did Death.

THE

THE

BRIGS OF AYR,

A

POEM.

INSCRIBED TO J. B*********, Esq. AYRI

THE fimple Bard, rough at the ruftic

plough,

Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough: The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrufh,

Hailing the fetting fun, fweet in the green

thorn bush ;

The

The foaring lark, the perching red-breaft

fhrill,

Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey wild-whistling

o'er the hill;

Shall he, nurft in the Peafant's lowly fhed,

To hardy Independance bravely bred,

By early Poverty to hardship steel'd,

And train'd to arm's in ftern Misfortune's

field;

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The fervile, mercenary Swifs of rhymes?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,

With all the venal foul of dedicating Profe?

No! though his artlefs ftrains he rudely

fings.

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the

Arings,

He

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